Pray Tell
by Verdreht
Summary: Things have been tense between Tim and Raylan for a while. Too bad Tim's pretending there's nothing wrong, and Raylan certainly won't say anything. So, what's it gonna take for them to figure it out? Pray tell. Raylan/Tim Slash
1. Chapter 1

Raylan didn't know what it was, but Art seemed to have a personal vendetta against all of his personal relationships. First with Ava, then with Winona, and now with Tim. He always seemed to find some way to either screw it up personally, or set in motion events that would, inevitably, _screw__it__up._

Take tonight, for example.

It was no secret that he and Winona had gotten back together for a time. Hell, most of the Marshal's office knew about it, and those who didn't were just on the cold side of the social spectrum or too full of themselves to admit to listening in on water cooler gossip.

What people _didn__'__t_ know was that he and Winona had also broken it off. After that whole money ordeal, Raylan just hadn't had it in him for another go around. Besides, they hadn't worked in the past…they just weren't a right pair, and seemed like they'd both finally come to realize that. No dramatics, no screaming or fisticuffs. They just calmly talked it out, and calmly decided that enough was enough.

Which would have been great, save for the third party in this little equation: Tim.

See, he wasn't being entirely honest when he said they'd just realized they weren't gonna work. No, Raylan had a little more incentive than that. He had someone else. Someone else whom he thought about those nights Winona came creeping in. Someone else whom he wanted to spend time with.

It had started less than a month after Raylan got reassigned to the hell's asshole that was Kentucky. He'd come in expecting wet-behind-the-ears deputies or hillbilly veterans that thought they knew it all. That had been the officer pool last time he'd been around.

But no, what he got instead was a fiery lady named Rachel (who admittedly seemed to think sometimes that she did know it all) and a quirky young veteran named Tim. It was the latter more than the former that really through him. Raylan had always been a pretty good judge of people; he could figure a guy out in a conversation, and hell, give him a couple of beers and he could tell you the guy's whole life story.

Not Tim, though.

Tim was a walking puzzle. At first, he didn't say much and Raylan almost got the impression he was just one of those good ol' boy background guys. Only good in support. After the accident with Boyd, though, when Tim had managed to snipe that big asshole in the middle of an OK Corral style shoot out, he started to get the impression that maybe there was more to the guy than just a badge and a good shot.

It was the stakeout, he guessed, that really did it. When you're trapped in a car with someone for hours on end with nothing to do for entertainment, you tend to get to talking. At first, it was mostly _Raylan_ that got to talking, but as the hours ticked by, Tim started chiming in a little more. Raylan decided to pull his trump card, then, and brought up the one little tidbit he'd managed to glean from that water cooler gossip he'd been mentioning earlier.

He'd found out Tim had been a sniper with the Rangers in Afghanistan, which he guessed went a little ways in explaining Tim's cast. He decided to mention it, just in passing, and see if he could get a little more from the guy than the usual one-liners and work jargon that seemed to make up most of his conversation.

It was warm in there, but not too bad. They'd been sitting there for a few hours, Raylan making starts at conversation and Tim making one- or two-word comments that tended to kill them where they stood. Not on purpose, Raylan didn't think; Tim just wasn't much of a conversationalist.

"Art tells me you were a sniper with the Rangers," he tried again. They'd been sitting there for hours, and frankly, he was getting tired of the silence. If he could just get Tim to talking, then maybe he'd have something to take his mind off of how bored he was. And how bad the coffee was.

They needed to keep Rachel away from the coffee pot.

Tim's response was altogether disappointing, though. "I was," he said, and went on staring ahead at the windshield.

Raylan took a sip from his coffee, not because he was thirsty, but because he needed a second to think of how to revive that little plot thread. It was the last hope he had, and he wasn't quite ready to let it die that easy. He wanted to figure this guy out, by God, and to do that, he had to get him using full sentences.

"What's the longest you ever had to watch a target?"

Raylan realized too late that the question left way too much room for another cut and dry answer.

"Three days," Tim said.

No shocker, there. Not the time – the time was impressive, and a little bit horrifying – but the response. Two words. Big surprise.

But then, Tim _did_ surprise him. With no further prompting, save a sideways glance, Tim went on, "_Shitty_ little village outside Condor. You watch a man that long, you get to know him better than his wife does."

Raylan resisted the urge to point out that most of the time, wives didn't know their husbands too well at all. He imagined it wasn't something Tim had a lot of personal experience with, him being young and with his background in the military and all; and besides, he didn't want to break his stride.

"When he reads the paper…picks his nose. What glass he likes for tea, what for milk. When he jerks off…what he looks at when he – when he does. If he's nice to the dog when no one's around."

It was the most words Raylan had ever heard him string together in a sentence outside of office talk, and frankly…it was some of the weirdest stuff Raylan had ever heard. He'd watched guys plenty in his day, too, and he'd never gotten to know any of that about any of them.

Still, strange as it was, it was oddly endearing. Charming. He'd known Tim was quirky, but it seemed to Raylan he was the right kind of quirky. A lot of it was a little bit juvenile – picking his nose and jerking off – but some of it was kind of deep…sentimental. It was an odd sort of juxtaposition, but Raylan found he kind of liked it.

And besides that, Tim's voice was really starting to grow on him. It wasn't abrasive, and it had this smooth, restrained country drawl that sat just right on the ears like a good hat.

To that effect, he wanted to keep him talking. "What's the trick to something like that?" he asked.

"Wha—keeping your focus?" Raylan nodded. "Well, they told us to come up with stories about ourselves and the target."

"What do you mean, 'stories?'"

"Nothing elaborate. Imagine…taking Shirley to the movies, watching Price Is Right, eating take-out Chinese." A pause. "They eventually stopped that, the business with the stories."

"Why is that?"

Tim's brows drew down in a look Raylan couldn't quite place. "Eh, they found some folks get, so involved in the tales they're telling themselves…they grow to like the target. And when they got the green light, they couldn't pull."

Raylan watched as a station wagon pulled up in front of their car. "That happen to you?" he asked.

Tim looked over at him. "Is that her?"

Raylan wasn't sure whether he should take that as a yes or a no.

After that, there's been the hostage situation at the station. He'd gotten to know Tim a little better by then, got to know that he was _just_ as strange as he thought he was, but in a good way. He would make these little comments in passing, and get this surprised little look on his face when people laughed, like he was just saying what was in his head all the time and couldn't imagine why people might find it funny. Raylan liked him in moments like that – he was the sort of guy that Raylan could be around for more than five minutes without wishing for a standing kill order.

That day with the hostage situation, though, he'd seen a different side of Tim. He'd seen him take off from his desk with his sidearm drawn before anyone else even figured out what the hell was going on. There'd been a look in his eyes, then, that Raylan couldn't quite figure. Something cold. Something sharp. Something not at all like the warm, quiet mirth that usually danced behind those blue eyes.

He'd come in just in time to save the day, too, breathing hard like he'd just run a marathon (Raylan suspected he might just have). But he got there all the same, and if it hadn't been for him, Raylan knew a life would've been lost that day. Maybe more than one.

That was the day Raylan figured out that it was almost like two different people, packed inside one Tim. There was the Tim he was when he was off the clock and out of danger, all relaxed and casual and charmingly _odd_. Then there was the Tim he was when there was a gun pointed at him or his – this cold, calculating _beast_ with a sniper rifle and not much in the way of conscience. Raylan admired them both for different reasons, but he had to say he liked the former better.

They'd been around weeks after that, and Raylan found the younger man growing on him more and more. Mostly, it was through the conversations in the office with everyone around, but sometimes he would catch him alone in the elevator and talk about something other than work for just a few minutes.

Raylan loved those times.

He supposed things really came to a crest, though, that night when he and Art were at the VFW trying to get at Arlo. Neither of them being veterans, they'd had to call Tim over to get them in.

Raylan's jaw'd about hit the floor when Tim showed up. Not just because he was a little drunk and Raylan had never seen him drunk, but because…damn. The contrast between the way his white tank-top and worn jeans clung to his lithe, muscled form and the way his too-large plaid button up hung off him like a little kid in his big brother's clothes sparked something in Raylan that he hadn't felt sparked in a while.

He supposed he probably knew what was coming when he offered to drive Tim home. He'd said it was because Tim shouldn't be driving, but they both knew Tim really wasn't that drunk, and he'd gotten there just fine. But Raylan wasn't quite ready to go his separate way.

Needless to say, it hadn't really been all that big a surprise when he'd wound up in bed with Tim a few hours later, sweaty and happier than he'd been in years. Laying there, the smell of rain and just a hint of gun oil and powder in his nose and a tone, naked body in his arms, he'd known that he could die right then and be fulfilled.

They'd been good for a few weeks after that. Subtle, undercover, but good. It seemed to Raylan that Tim was smiling just a little bit more during those times, but maybe he was imagining it. He knew he wasn't imagining all those repeat performances that took place anywhere from his hotel to Tim's house to the locker room at the Marshal Station when the nights were late and the desire was there.

It would've been perfect, Raylan thought. Only, he wasn't sure what "it" was. A fling? Tim didn't seem like the type, but then, something told Raylan he'd not had much chance at relationships. Or maybe it _was_ a relationship, in which case Raylan thought about going public. He was tired of all watching the young ladies at the office stare at _his_ Tim like a piece of meat, and hell, he just wasn't too worried about what other people might thing. Kentucky convention or no, he wanted Tim to be his.

He'd just about worked up the courage to do it, too.

…until Winona came along.


	2. Chapter 2

Things had been tense between him and Tim since Winona. Or, at least, they should've been. Only, they weren't. Tim acted like nothing was going on. He joked around with him at the office, chatted with him on elevators, the whole nine yards. The only thing that had changed was the nights. No more nights at Raylan's or Tim's or the Marshal Station locker rooms. No more waking up to the smell of rain and gun oil, no more watching the steady rise and fall of Tim's firm chest or the soft smile on his young face as he slept. No more carding his hands through that soft hair or gripping that perfect skin.

No, no more of that.

He'd tried to talk to Tim about it. When they'd been assigned the transport case of the pregnant prisoner, he'd tried bringing it up on the way to the jail. But Tim, Raylan had discovered, was exceptionally skilled at deflection, such that Raylan didn't even realized he'd been put off-track until they were loading the prisoner in the back of the car.

After a couple of weeks of it, Raylan had just about had enough.

It didn't help that he and Winona had split. After that ordeal with the money, he just wasn't keen on getting roped into all her mess. He had his own chaos to take care of.

Besides, you can only imagine someone else's face when you're having sex so many times before you give it up and go for the one you really want.

However, it seemed like that hadn't made it to the rumor mill quite as quick as their reunion, and he could hardly bring it up. What was he gonna say? "Hey, Tim, I think we should pick back up where we left off, 'cause I made a mistake and now I know that you're the one I really want."

Actually, that probably would've worked for anyone else. But Tim wasn't anyone else. He was different, and Raylan knew and loved that about him. Tim had trusted him, and Raylan hadn't missed the look that had flashed across his face when he first heard the rumor that Raylan and Winona were back together.

In all honesty, Raylan wasn't even sure Tim would admit there was something to go back to in the first place. The way Tim dealt with things wasn't particularly odd – denial was an old hat, even for Raylan – but the _degree_ to which he did it was exceptional. He acted like there wasn't even anything wrong, like there wasn't a problem and like Raylan hadn't screwed him over in a big way. He acted like they were just regular old buds, and he seemed to really mean it, which was the part that worried Raylan the most. Had he not seen that one moment of weakness, he might've thought…well, that Tim just didn't care at all.

But he did, and that was the problem. Because Raylan knew he was hurt, but he had no fucking clue how to fix it. More than that, he'd hardly had the chance. Tim had been sent on some assignment in Ohio, and Raylan hadn't seen him in a week.

Which was the part of the story where Art came in.

He'd been taking Winona home when he got cut off by some gun thugs trying to take him out. Winona had gotten caught in the crossfire, but he'd managed to get them both out safe. The only problem was that when he got back to the office, there was the small matter of him and Winona having been alone in the car driving at night when he got attacked.

It just so happened that was Tim's first day back. He could see Tim putting two and two together from the moment he saw them. He wanted to stop him, to tell him what really happened, but Tim was off doing God only knew what before Raylan got the chance. After that, he'd been corralled into the conference room to talk to a bunch of guppies in suits that he hadn't given two shits about.

Tim finally reappeared about a half hour later. Raylan spotted him when he was glancing out to see the kind of commotion Gary was following.

He guessed it probably would've been nice to let the guy know he wasn't in the running anymore, but Raylan just didn't have the heart.

Instead, he got it in his head to march on out there. Gary was reading Winona the riot act, and he heard his name get dropped a few times. He didn't want Gary to say anything that might incriminate him any further; the guy had a tendency to let his mouth run off and leave his brain behind, and with Tim standing that close, that wasn't a risk Raylan cared to take.

He hadn't _really_ expected the shoving and shouting match that ensued, but it wasn't exactly a surprise, either. For the most part, Tim stayed out of it, and Raylan didn't blame him. So far as Tim was concerned, this was a fight Raylan deserved.

Or, at least, that was what Raylan figured he ought to be thinking. Somehow, though, he doubted Tim thought in terms of spite. It just didn't seem like it was in his character.

Art, on the other hand…

After their little row, Raylan had been effectively saddled with a babysitter, which would have been bad enough already, except for whom it was.

Tim.

Of course, it had to be Tim.

Normally, Raylan would've been happy for the chance to set things straight. But he had pressing matters to set straight, too, and that meant he was going to have to antagonize his bodyguard a little.

Which was why he was pissed, because he _really_didn't want to give Tim another reason to be mad at him. Not that Tim looked mad at him; no, he seemed to take everything in stride. Raylan just wondered if he was coming up on the straw that was gonna break this proverbial camel's back.

"You know, your rear bumper's hanging by a thread," Tim remarked as they both got out of their cars at Raylan's motel. It struck Raylan as an oddly casual statement. "Every time we hit a bump, I thought it was gonna come off and smash straight through my windshield."

He guessed that meant the denial was holding. To Raylan's surprise, the thought actually frustrated him a little. Why wouldn't Tim just own up to whatever the hell was going on here so that Raylan could set about fixing it?

"And yet you still stayed so close," Raylan retorted as he made his way up to his room. Tim was right behind him, too.

"I don't suppose you've got one of them suites with the pull-out couch?" Tim asked.

And there it was. The comment, Raylan could tell, was meant to sound offhand, but there was something to it. The slightest waver of his voice, a hidden tension, something. In all honesty, Raylan couldn't tell if it was meant to be a dig at him or a genuine question – whether he wanted to remind Raylan he wouldn't be sleeping with him, or to remind himself that he wouldn't. It was small, but that didn't matter, because it was something. It was proof that Tim really did care about what had happened. It was proof that Tim really was hurting.

Raylan didn't know whether that made him feel better or worse.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with that just then, though, so he started on another line of conversation. He needed to know about the thugs that had tried to kill him. They'd been well-trained. Military.

Tim seemed like the go-to guy for that.

It seemed like Art had told Tim not to help Raylan out on this. Tim told him as much. But when Raylan asked about guys in the military going out to be mercenaries, he had been relatively forthcoming. Some guys couldn't hack it and went into wet work.

Which made Raylan extremely grateful to have Tim on his side.

On the other hand, Raylan could tell the conversation was making Tim uncomfortable. He'd found, actually, that most talk about the military made Tim uncomfortable. The thought made him feel sort of guilty – it wasn't bad enough he had left Tim high and dry, now he was interrogating him, too – and he quickly sought to change the subject.

"I'll call the front desk, see if I can get you a cot," Raylan said. It was meant to be a peace offering. Now that he was thinking about it, Tim looked pretty rough. Dark eyes, slow steps, and a heavy sag to his shoulders…he looked dog tired, and maybe a little sore. Whatever he'd been doing down in Ohio, it seemed to have been a tough job.

But then, Tim turned towards the door. "I got a sleeping bag in the trunk," he said, opening the door. Just before he walked out, though, he stopped and turned back towards Raylan. "You're not gonna try to go out the window or anything while I'm gone?"

Raylan looked at him for a moment. It was honestly hard to tell if that was a serious question or not. "No," he answered finally. The truth was, he _was_ planning on making a break for it, just not then. Hell, though, he figured Tim deserved fair warning. He owed him that at least. "Not right now. I'm beat. Plus, you've got your car here. Even if I got the jump on you, you'd be right behind me."

"But you will eventually."

"Eventually, yes."

"'Yes.' Why would you do that?" He sounded almost irate. Indignant.

"Well, I got to talk to some people. Alone. So, either you _let_ me go, or I'm gonna have to give you the slip."

Raylan kind of expected a retort for that. Something angry. Raylan knew he would've been.

But since when did Tim do the expected.

"I love this shit," he said with a shrug. "This shit makes me hard."

Raylan was _almost_ certain Tim said that just to mess with him.

"Well then, we've both been warned."

Raylan woke up the next morning to sun streaming in through the window. At first, everything was dead silent, and Raylan wondered if maybe Tim had stepped out or something.

But then, he heard the turn of a page coming from over by his window. He turned on the bed and saw Tim sitting over at the table, a magazine in his hands. Sun was streaming in behind him, lighting up half of his face.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "You sleep in that chair all night?" he asked. He hoped not. The way Tim had looked last night, he could've used the sleep.

"Ever since Ranger school, I can't sleep past six-thirty," Tim replied without so much as peeking up from his magazine. Though Raylan would've preferred Tim at least look at him while he was talking, it did give him a chance to give the younger man the once-over.

Raylan still thought Tim looked pretty worn down. Maybe he'd pretend to go back to sleep and give the guy some more down-time.

He had a job to do, though, he remembered. So did Tim. If Tim wasn't in top form, then maybe it was a good thing he was following Raylan. At least this way, Raylan could sort of keep an eye on him.

Despite his warning, he felt kind of bad about giving Tim the slip back at the grocery store. It was a necessary evil, but…_why_ did it have to be Tim? It wasn't just their ongoing trouble, it was Tim himself. Raylan wasn't sure how Tim was going to take this. He seemed light enough, but on the other hand, this was his _job_. Art had ordered him to watch Raylan, and if there was one thing Tim took more seriously than anything else, it was Tim's job. His orders. His _duty_. Raylan was messing that up for him, and he felt terrible for it.

He just didn't see himself having any other choice. He had a job to do himself.

It was that job that took him to Mag Bennett's house that afternoon. Seemed to him when he rolled up that she'd been tagged something awful, but he was off duty, so he figured it wasn't really his problem.

He had just finished getting pretty much nowhere with the woman when he heard the sound of a car pulling up. Mag turned, and Raylan did as well, to see a black SUV pulling up. Raylan felt his heart seize up when he realized it was Tim. How was he gonna react to getting left? Was he gonna be pissed? Was he gonna be hurt? Or was he gonna be that same infallible cool he'd been this whole damn time?

Honestly, Raylan would've preferred either of the former.

As Tim got out of the truck, Raylan observed he did look decidedly put out.

"How's Loretta?" Mag asked as he turned back around.

Raylan probably would've come up with something more snarky in the way of a retort, but his attention was elsewhere now, so he settled for, "She seems find, considering."

"Make sure she knows I didn't mean for any of this to happen." Raylan nodded and started to walk away. "Any of it," he heard her say behind him, but his eyes and mind were no something else.

Or, some_one_, more like. Tim had stopped outside his truck and was standing with his hands on his hips as Raylan approached.

"You bring me my change?" Raylan asked. Testing the waters.

"Nope." Short, concise, to the point. "Ice cream's melted, too."

"You found me," Raylan replied as he came to a stop in front of the smaller man. "I'm impressed."

Tim's face was drawn into as close to a scowl as Raylan imagined he could get, and his eyes were burning. "Give me a little credit. I'm a professional."

"Okay," Raylan said peacefully. He wanted to have this talk, but this probably wasn't the time or the place.

Tim seemed to pick up on that. "She behind it?" he asked.

Changing the subject…

"She says no."

"What's with the Oakridge boys out front of her place?"

"That's all about that Black Pike deal."

"So, you're done here?" Tim asked, nodding his head towards Mags's.

Raylan sighed. "Yeah," he said. Something told him something was fixing to happen, and he wasn't too keen on it. "And just so you're not confused, I'm now gonna go to Winona's…check in on her. Unless, of course, that's against the rules."

"No, the only rule is you don't ditch me it the middle of the damn convenience store," Tim bit back with more burn than he had yet. Raylan was almost a little pleased to get a reaction from him. Finally. "And I'm not tellin' Art, by the way, 'cause that'd be my ass, too. So, yeah, let's go see your ex-wife, girlfriend, whatever it is we're calling her."

There was something in the way he said that…yeah, Tim was getting close to the breaking point. The only question was how long it was gonna be.

Raylan never thought he'd be glad to see Doyle Bennett.

Raylan thought it had all cooled down. There they were, sitting around the TV, eating pizza. Well, some of them were. Gary had gone off to bed, as had Winona, and so far as Raylan could tell, Tim hadn't taken a single bite of pizza and the beer he'd been nursing had lasted through two John Wayne films and counting. Frankly, Raylan wasn't even sure he'd blinked. He'd just sat there in his black long-sleeve t-shirt, his eyes fixed on the TV like he was in some sort of trance.

Raylan was torn between being annoyed at him and worried about him. He hadn't forgotten how worn out Tim had been since he'd gotten back from that job, and he knew dealing with him hadn't been a walk in the park. Ergo, concern. But he also got the feeling Tim was pouting, which was both annoying and a little bit cute at the same time. Sometimes, Tim really was so much like a kid. Be it pinball on the office computer when he thought nobody was looking or his peculiar fascination with Disney movies that Raylan used to watch with him to humor him, there were times that Raylan wondered if Tim had ever grown up.

Then he remembered Tim had joined the military as soon as he was able, and that it wasn't that Tim had never grown up. It was that he'd been made to grow up too fast.

Still, times like this made Raylan wish he'd hit a certain level before he'd tapered off. Not that Raylan blamed him for being sore about getting ditched – hell, he would've been. He just wished he'd figure out something else to do with that frustration other than sitting there like a lifeless rag doll.

"I feel like I'm in _The__Big__Chill_," he remarked suddenly, once Winona was gone to bed and Rachel was on her way out.

"Yeah, except no one's dead," Raylan replied.

"Yet."

"And the music sucks," Rachel chimed in as she was heading out of the living room.

Raylan got up to join her. "Well then go home," he said, "get some sleep."

"Art wants somebody here."

"I'm here." He glanced back to see Tim following behind him, beer bottle still in hand. "Me and my shadow."

"Yeah, we're here 'till you leave," Tim retorted. The comment didn't hold any blatant animosity, but then, Tim didn't deal in blatant.

Raylan was fed up. Turning on his heel to face the younger man, he bit back, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You _not_ remember this morning?" Tim asked.

Rachel popped back in again. "What happened this morning?"

"I _told_ you I was gonna do that," Raylan defended.

"And now you're tellin' me you won't?"

"Exactly."

"Do what?" Rachel looked annoyed, too.

Raylan was about to answer, but he thought better of it, glancing over at Tim expectantly. Let him answer if he wanted to.

Which, apparently, he didn't. His eyebrows jumped, once, and he dropped his gaze to some obscure point on the wall while he took another sip of his beer.

"Whatever," Rachel muttered when she realized she probably wasn't gonna get a straight answer. "Listen, I take my orders from Art, which means I'm gonna be here unless he says otherwise. I will, however, take you up on that sleep. I'm assuming you two can handle the night watch." With that, she was done with them. She headed up the stairs, leaving Raylan alone with Tim.

"I'm gonna go to sleep, too," Tim said. He raised his wrist to check his watch as he headed to one of the guest rooms. "I'll relieve you in four hours."

As Raylan watched him go, he wondered just how hard it would be to sneak into his room to sabotage his alarm clock. For one, he had something to attend to – there were headlights out on the street that had been there a long time, and they were starting to concern him.

For two, Tim looked like he needed a hell of a lot more than four hours of sleep.

Raylan crept back into the house as quietly as he could. After the business with Gary, he was keen on just getting back inside and getting some sleep. It had been a long ass night, and he was getting real fed up with people. If he could just get in without anyone noticing…He checked his watch. Four hours weren't up, yet, so with any luck, Tim would still be snoozing.

Of course, since when did Raylan Givens have any luck?

As soon as he stepped into the house, from out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure in black to his right. He glanced over.

Tim was sitting in a chair in front of the hearth. And he didn't look happy.

"I wake up for my shift on guard duty and come down here to find I've got no one to relieve," Tim said.

"Winona?" Raylan asked. He had meant to make sure she was still there – God only knew if those thugs could've crept in here while he was sleeping. He realized only a little too late how it would sound.

Tim watched him levelly. "She's still asleep," he said. "Rachel, too. Gary's not in his room, but somehow I think that's not news to you."

Raylan didn't have the energy to deal with this. He was still wound up taut from the trailer, and he _really_ didn't want to snap at Tim. He needed sleep.

"Did you kill him?"

The question caught him by surprise, and he paused on his way up the stairs. "No," he said.

"You kill anybody?"

"No."

"Well, I guess there's that." Raylan turned to go back up the stairs, but Tim's voice stopped him again. "You find out who's behind the hit?"

So much for getting out before he blew his lid. He turned on the stairs and walked back towards the living room, throwing his arms up to the sides. "How much you wanna know, hmm?" he asked.

He hadn't meant for it to come out as sharp as it did.

A brief look of _something_ crossed Tim's face – hurt, fear, sadness – and Tim dropped his head to his hand, rubbing his brow like he always did when he was upset. "Forget I asked," he muttered.

Raylan tried to pretend he didn't hear his voice waver.


	3. Chapter 3

Raylan really wasn't sure how he kept getting himself into these situations. First, he got hung up in a tree and beat on for a while. Now, he found himself in a stand-off with Doyle Bennett on the outside, and little Loretta holding a gun on Mags on the inside. Standing against a good six or seven guys all armed with shotguns, he had one handgun and Dickie as a human shield.

He thought things might go okay for a second. Things were at a stalemate, Dickie was out of the way, and he was talking to Doyle in a _reasonably_ civilized manner.

Then, with the sound of a gunshot from inside, everything went to hell.

Raylan hardly even felt the bullet as he dove for the ground; he just remembered the extra kick that spun him as he went. Dickie was screaming, then Doyle was screaming, and finally the roar of gunfire died down.

Suddenly, Raylan became aware of a shadow coming over him, and he turned onto his side to see Doyle standing above him with a gun pointed at his head.

There was precisely jack shit Raylan could do to avoid it.

"This bullet's been on its way for twenty-five years," said Doyle. Raylan could see the muscles tensing in his hand as he prepared to pull the trigger. That was it then. He was going to—

Something whizzed through the air, and the very next thing Raylan knew, Doyle was falling backwards, a small hole in his forehead and what he imagined was a not-so-small one on the back.

"No!" Dickie screamed, but it didn't count for much. Doyle was dead as a doornail, courtesy of one well-aimed snipe.

"Drop your weapons and get on the ground," came Art's voice over a loud speaker. Raylan rolled over a little to see dozens of men in uniform jackets coming running. Cars were pulling up with more uniforms and sirens were going off.

Raylan took that as his cue to get up. He was just managing to push himself to his feet – he was starting to feel that bullet, now – when Art came running up. A glance beside him confirmed Raylan's suspicions: Tim was standing beside him, his sniper rifle up and his ball cap turned backwards.

He was the one that'd saved Raylan's life.

Raylan woke up that night to a knock on his door. He went to sit up, only to be reminded quite painfully of why he'd spent a couple hours at the hospital earlier that day. It hadn't been anything serious – through the meat, out the other side, and it didn't hit anything vital. Still, it hurt like a bitch, and it was keen on reminding him.

"I'm coming," he called as he eased his legs over the side of his bed. He held onto his stomach as he stood, the bandages over his bare torso coarse against his hand. As he made his way to the door, he had half a mind to wonder who in their right minds would be outside his door at – he checked his alarm clock – three in the morning. And on a night like this, no less. It was pouring down rain, which Raylan was inclined to think was ironic, and cold enough to nip at the very least, it being late in the fall and all.

He thought about grabbing some more clothes as he went, but he figured that at that hour, whomever it was that needed to see him could see him just as well in flannel sleep pants and no shirt.

He did, however, see fit to pick up something else on the way. His gun, lying on his bedside table, went in his hand, and he held it at his side. Something told him the person outside wasn't an unfriendly, but it didn't bear taking risks. The pain in his side told him that.

"Who is it?" he called when he got close enough to the door.

There was a long pause, and then, "It's me, Raylan."

Normally, Raylan would've fired off some smart remark about how he didn't know any "me," but he wasn't in the mood, and something told him this wasn't the time. He knew exactly whom it was – Tim – and by the sound of his voice, jokes weren't in order for the time being.

Raylan wasted no time opening the door, sitting his gun on the kitchen (or, at least, what passed for a kitchen) table and undoing all the locks.

The sight he saw when he opened the door was almost enough to break his heart.

Tim was standing on his porch, still in the same damn clothes he'd been in at Mag's. His Marshal's jacket hung off his frame, and the gray button up he was wearing underneath was so wet it was nearly black. He held his hat loose in his hand, and water dripped from it and his sodden hair alike. More droplets ran down his nose and from his eyes.

They were so red, it was hard to tell if it was rain or tears.

For a long moment, neither said anything, but finally, "Raylan," Tim said softly. His voice cracked around the words. He fidgeted with his hat, wiped his face with his hand. When he finally got around to raising his eyes to Raylan's, there was a brief flicker, and something in him seemed to break. "I'm sorry, Raylan, I just—"

Raylan silenced Tim with a soft, short kiss and pulled him into a careful embrace. He knew his bandages were probably gonna get wet, but he didn't give a damn. Whatever this was, going on with Tim, it was more important. And he hadn't had the sort of day that disposed him to caring about wet bandages or past feuds or anything. Tim had saved his life, and now he was outside Raylan's door, a mess. Bandages didn't matter.

Tim didn't seem to think so, though. He tried to push back from Raylan, though the effort was halfhearted. "You're gonna get wet," he protested.

"No," Raylan said, "you're gonna get dry." At Tim's confused look – the poor guy wasn't processing at full speed, it didn't seem like – Raylan opted to explain it to him.

Slowly.

"You're gonna stay right there and ditch all those wet rags before you get hypothermic on me. I'm gonna walk right into that bathroom over there—" he jabbed his thumb towards the bathroom door, "—and see if I can't scrounge up some towels for you. M'kay?"

Tim nodded, but Raylan reckoned that was only because he didn't have the gusto or the presence of mind to protest. It was like he'd shut down, his eyes fixed on his feet, and the only signs of life were the shivers that coursed through his lithe form.

He'd see to all that, though, just as soon as he got him dry and warm.

Moving as fast as his sore side would allow, Raylan went into the bathroom and grabbed a few towels out of the cabinet. By the time he made it back into the main room, Tim had…

Well, Tim hadn't moved.

Raylan cleared his throat and Tim raised his head, stared at him blankly for a moment, and finally said, "I didn't know where to put my clothes."

At the expression on his face when he said it – a mix between sheepish and lost – Raylan didn't quite know if he should laugh or cry. He settled on a soft, reassuring smile and a shake of his head as he made his way back over to his sometimes-lover.

"Here," he said, dropping one of the towels down on the floor and straightening it out with his bare foot. "Now come on, before you shrivel up and freeze."

Hesitantly, Tim nodded and started shedding his wet clothes. To give him some privacy – even though he'd seen every inch of the guy – he turned his back to him and started grabbing some clothes that Tim could put on to dry.

When he turned around, though, he nearly stopped dead.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed.

Tim looked up at him, but Raylan wasn't look at Tim's face. No, he was looking at the bruises mottled around his shoulder and ribs, at the scuffs on his shoulder and the welts on his upper arm. Tim had finished drying himself off with one of the towels, so the thick cloth hung loosely around his waist, obscuring anything else.

Raylan hoped there wasn't anything else.

"Ohio?" he guessed.

"Ohio," Tim confirmed. "Bust got rough. Nothing too bad, just a little sore."

"You tell Art?"

Tim looked genuinely confused. "Why would I tell Art?"

Sometimes, Raylan wondered just what planet Tim came from.

"Don't you think he might want to know you're hurt? That have anything to do with why you haven't been sleeping?" Tim opened his mouth to protest, but Raylan cut him off. "Don't take me for a fool, Tim. I was there, remember? Now, here," he handed him a pair of boxers, "they're probably gonna be big for you, but it's better than what you got."

"Thanks," Tim muttered. He took the boxers with still-shaking hands and pulled them on under the towel. He let the towel fall, then, and pool around his feet on the floor with the rest of his wet clothing. Raylan had some sweatpants waiting for him, and he donned those as well.

Once he was finished with that, Raylan pointed to the bed and said, "Sit." Tim didn't argue, moving almost mechanically to take a seat on the side of the bed. Raylan, in the meantime, picked up the last of the dry towels he'd brought in and unfolded it. Wordlessly, he put it on the back of Tim's dripping hair and started drying.

At first, Tim was stock stiff. He had been the whole time he'd been in Raylan's motel. But as Raylan continued to dry him off, moving the towel carefully down his back and his arms and back up to his soggy hair, Tim's shoulders started to lose their tension. Slowly, but surely, Tim's head started to slump against Raylan's chest as he dried him.

A sudden noise caught Raylan's attention. A sniff. A choked sound, almost like a whimper. People might call him oblivious, but Raylan knew exactly what those sounds meant.

Tim was crying.

Stepping back, Raylan tilted Tim's chin up and found he'd been right. Tim tried to hide his face in his hands, but Raylan held them at bay, exposing the tracks of tears and his red-rimmed eyes.

Raylan felt a lump rise in his throat at the sight. Tim was one of the most stoic men he'd ever seen. He was calm, he was smooth, and he didn't cry. Whatever had upset him, it'd worked him up good, because he looked downright lost.

So, Raylan did the only thing he could do. He sat down beside the younger man and pulled him close. Tim didn't resist; he practically folded into Raylan's chest, it was nothing dramatic, nothing hysterical, just the steady tremble of shoulders and the occasional choked whine.

"I'm sorry," Tim finally managed to say. "I just—I thought…and you didn't—and I wasn't mad at you, but I—"

Raylan held him a little tighter, stroking his hands through Tim's drying hair. "Hey, hey, hey, you don't got anything to be sorry for," he soothed, rocking him softly. Holding him like this was making his side twinge, but the pain in his side was nothing to the one in his chest, seeing Tim break down like this. The younger man was holding onto him like the last tree in a tornado. "Just catch your breath. You don't have to tell me anything right now. Just wait until you're good and ready."

Raylan would sit there with him all morning if he had to; he wasn't going anywhere until he was sure Tim was all right.

But Tim shook his head and started to sit up, and Raylan let him. He felt his heart wrench as Tim rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, and as he pulled them away, those baby blues of his were bloodshot and dark.

"No," he said. "I'm fine. I'm not the one with the—the bullet hole." It would've been a lot more convincing if his voice hadn't cracked around the words. A laugh came after that, forced and bordering on bitter, as Tim bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

So, that was what this was all about.

Raylan leaned forward, draping an arm carefully around Tim's shoulders. "I don't know what you've got going on in that thick head of yours, but I ain't exactly dying here. Ain't really much more than a flesh wound."

"Could've been," Tim muttered, still not raising his eyes from the carpet.

Raylan nodded, even though he knew Tim wouldn't see it. "It could've been," he agreed. "Hell, it would've been, only I happen to know this guy who's pretty good with a rifle." He gave Tim's shoulder a soft, playful bump.

"Whole hell of a lot of good that did for you."

Raylan cocked his head to the side, his brows knotting. Did Tim think…? "You better not be blaming yourself for this."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not your faul—"

Tim lunged up off the bed before Raylan could even finish, turning on him with his chest heaving and his eyes burning. "The hell it isn't!" he shouted. "The whole damn thing's my fault!"

In all honesty, Raylan wasn't really sure what to do with that. If it was a regular person yelling, he probably would've laughed it off or tried to talk them down. But this was Tim…Tim just didn't yell. Tim didn't get so furious his fists clenched and his jaw muscles showed. It wasn't like the guy at all.

"Just how do you figure that?" he asked finally. He couldn't laugh this off, because seeing Tim upset like this just wasn't funny, and coddling him would just piss him off. Deadpan seemed the way to go, then. Let him vent it all out, and he could pick up the pieces when they were all laid out.

Tim, now on his feet, paused for a moment. He didn't seem like he was expecting a question, but he didn't lose much speed. "I should've been there!" he retorted. He started pacing, then, his fingers furled in his hair so tight Raylan was scared he was about to scalp himself.

"So, why weren't you?"

"Because you pissed me off!" Tim practically roared, and then continued in a softer, but more frantic tone. "When we were together, I didn't—No one's ever been like that to me before. I've never had that before, and I thought it mattered. But then Winona comes back, and it's like I don't even matter anymore. She comes back, and everyone's talking about how 'Oh, that Raylan loves that Winona' and 'I wonder when the wedding's gonna be' and 'Aren't they just the sweetest couple?' And _I_ wanted that! I want to be a sweet couple and have people wonder when the wedding's gonna be and have people go on about how great we are and shit, because that's what people are supposed to do. But that's not how it is! Because we weren't ever together. We fucked, and I thought it was something else, but it wasn't. And when I figured it out, Christ, it was like taking a slug to the chest. I tried to play it off, if it didn't matter, but it did. And when you were there with Winona that night…and then Art told me to keep an eye on you, and I couldn't, 'cause you kept fucking sneaking off. Can't even do a tail right. Hell, you ditched me for guard duty, and what's the first thing you ask me when you get caught? 'Winona?'"

Raylan had been right to regret that. "Tim, I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter!" Tim interrupted him. "It didn't matter, and I should've known that, I just…I didn't. But that doesn't make what I did okay. I should've been with you. If I'd had my head on me, I wouldn't have let you go to Mags's alone. I'd have been there from the get-go, and you wouldn't have gotten shot." He shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face roughly. "Christ, when we got that call, Raylan…I thought you were dead. I thought you'd gotten yourself shot to hell, and I thought it was all my damn fault, and I—" His voice caught, and his shoulders gave another tremble.

Raylan was on his feet as quick as he could be, closing the short distance between himself and Tim and wrapping his arms around him.

Tim took in a deep breath against his bare shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was soft and shaky, but calmer than it had been all night. "And I thought, 'hell, even if it didn't matter, I would've at least liked a chance to thank him.'"

"For being a royal asshole?" Raylan suggested lightly.

Tim shook his head. "For making me feel important," he said. "For making me feel like I'm more than just a quick shot and a handy office guy. I mean, hell, I can't do much anything else. Not much for conversation, don't know much about sports, and I'm lousy when it comes to people. Most people think all I'm really good for's sniping and work, and I don't generally disagree."

Raylan would've pointed out that he did – he disagreed – but it seemed Tim wasn't quite done yet.

"But you didn't. Don't. And I wanted to thank you for that. And I thought…I thought I wasn't gonna get a chance. That I wasn't gonna be good for anything again."

The words hit Raylan like a kick to the gut. That explained it, then. The hurt, the way Tim had been acting. He'd honestly thought Raylan didn't care about him. He thought he didn't matter for anything but what, his marksmanship and labor? The thought was mortifying…for someone as great as Tim to spend so long thinking that no one appreciated him – and more than that, feeling like they didn't have any reason to.

"Jesus Christ, Tim…." He pushed him back, cupping a hand on either side of his face and forcing him to meet his eyes. "You don't have to thank me for that," he said. "You don't have to thank me for anything. Hell, I figure you were right to be spitting mad." Tim started to protest, but Raylan spoke over him. "I screwed up, Tim, and I'm sorry for that. Winona and me already agreed we weren't going to work."

That seemed to catch Tim by surprise. "Why?" he asked, but then quickly added, "If you don't mind my asking."

Raylan shrugged. "She broke my trust, and we couldn't stop fighting…and frankly, it was never her face I was seeing when we were together anymore."

He watched Tim's throat bob deeply, watched his eyes flick down then back up, hesitantly. "Who…who were you thinking about?"

Sometimes, Raylan wasn't sure Tim's head was screwed on straight. Still, it was Tim, and that made it good enough for Raylan. He smiled and captured the younger man's lips in a kiss, deeper and more passionate than any before. Even when breath forced Raylan to break the kiss, they didn't part.

"You, stupid," he said softly. "It was always you."


End file.
